


like a summer shower

by intimatopia



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Angst and Porn, Consensual Sex, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/F, Self-Hatred, Undernegotiated emotional honesty, anorgasmia, life liberty and the pursuit of orgasms, symptoms syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:56:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29491668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intimatopia/pseuds/intimatopia
Summary: Akira’s plan—if it could be called that—hinged on brute force. She was holding a half-open cardboard box that, when Akechi peered inside, contained more sex toys than any single person would ever be able to use.“No,” Akechi said flatly. Akira pulled out an enormous purplething,too large to ever fit inside a human orifice. “No,” she repeated, but she could feel the breathiness in her voice.Akiraleered.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira
Comments: 26
Kudos: 96





	like a summer shower

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spicycmks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicycmks/gifts).



> thanks to mar, moki, mac, v, chrys, and summer for listening and helping with this fic. additional warnings: objectification, mentions of past assault & child abuse.
> 
> i knocked up a quick playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3sk81hdfWIMDo5DrmEW9rI). 
> 
> happy valentine's day, lex! you asked for lesbians and sex toys, and i took a while to deliver, but i hope you like this :3

Akira was probably good at sex. Akechi had never before considered sex something people were _good_ at—she’d simply been too busy to give the matter consideration. But Akira talked about sex in the same casual tone she used for everything else, referencing past partners and encounters and orgasms like they were an arsenal of Persona, designed to knock her enemy—in this case Akechi, theoretically no longer an enemy—off their feet.

Except Akira seemed to have some bizarre sixth sense for touch like she had for people, all that intensity narrowing down to a point when they kissed. Akechi was spoiled, _ruined_ every time Akira was near, knowing she would never have this with anyone else.

She’d never _had_ this with anyone else, so it wasn’t a great loss. Akechi’s experience with sex—which necessitated some experience with her body, due to the unavoidably physical nature of the act—was poor at best. Growing up the daughter of a sex worker meant people viewed her body as public property by assumed extension, and her lack of family and subsequent fame had only enlarged the number of people that wanted her.

Inappropriate comments, sneaky attempts to get her alone, _less_ sneaky ways to get her alone, anonymous touches when she made the mistake of being in a crowd—

A couple of instances where it had come so close she mostly desperately avoided thinking about it even as her brain picked obsessively at the events before and after like there was anything _she_ could do that would stop people from thinking about her like _that._

She couldn’t stop others, so she exerted that control inwards. Her body was a tool for revenge, and as such did not care what else it destroyed—or what else destroyed _her_. Her body was not meant for pleasure. It had little inclination towards what was supposed to be pleasurable—hot baths, yes, nobody who fought could dislike that—but not towards sweets or professionals servicing her body to make it more beautiful (she was sure this _was_ enjoyable for other women—why else would they incessantly seek it out?) or pretty clothes or any of the other things she was meant to derive physical pleasure from. Touching herself belonged in the same category. She couldn’t avoid the sensory memory of gripping a sword and arcing it down through resisting flesh, and the echo of that in her palm made sensual touch feel like a precursor to violence.

Yes, Akechi was quite familiar with violence—whether directed at others or herself, but thinking about stabbing herself while she was trying to have an orgasm kind of ruined the entire thing.

She didn’t try very often. Failure was humiliating, and she hated her body afterwards.

But she hadn’t had time to convey all of that to Akira before they were kissing for the first time, Akira’s hands shaking as they gripped the back of Akechi’s shirt. Pressed into the wall behind Leblanc, Akechi learned that some things _could_ feel good: Akira’s mouth hungry and warm against hers, her hard body with all its ridges and soft flesh and the way Akira’s face fit perfectly into Akechi’s palm.

The silence in her head felt _good._ She was still dazed when Akira pulled away, leaned back in for a last glancing nip, then let her wander off home in a foolish cloud of nerveless wonder.

She’d touched herself that night, trying to imitate the sensation Akira had coaxed up. Her body was more relaxed than she could remember it being in a long time, but it tensed again under her cold fingers. The endeavour was hopeless by the time she pressed the heel of her hand against her cunt over her underwear, and she gave up. Turned over in bed and pressed her face against the pillow, frustrated and despairing.

Even then she’d known that Akira came with more experience than Akechi could hope to match short of whoring herself out—though that wouldn’t teach her pleasure. Nothing _could_ ; she lived in a ruin, and she should have been resigned by now.

Resignation was not Akechi’s strong suit.

The next time they kissed, in Akira’s attic, Akechi straddled her. Akira’s fingers hooked into her collar and pulled her down, stroking her back and sides, distracting her from Akira’s mouth wandering over her jaw and then down her neck, licking and sucking at the skin. Some part of Akechi remained terrified, attuned to the moment her body would give up and decide it couldn’t take any more; the rest of her was devastated. 

She moaned when Akira tugged her shirt aside to kiss her collarbone.

“Good girl,” Akira whispered. Akechi’s heart hitched. “Make that sound for me again, c’mon.” She punctuated the words with a deliciously sharp bite to the side of Akechi’s neck. 

She opened her mouth. Her throat locked up, body seized with a panic that came on too suddenly to be fended off. Akira’s body was a comfort, but now it was suffocatingly close and everything was _too much,_ the soft-edged heat in her stomach turned cold and hard in the flash of an incomprehensible second. She scrambled away from Akira, panting and trying to do up the top button of her shirt.

“Akechi,” Akira was saying. “Hey, Goro. Listen to me, okay?”

“Shut up,” Akechi hissed, cheeks hot with shame. “Just shut up.”

Akira went quiet. Akechi gathered herself on the other end of the narrow bed, every ache her body had ever healed from reasserting their presence.

The silence stretched, interminable except for the sound of their breaths—Akira’s deliberately slow and measured, a rhythm Akechi could’ve matched her own stuttered gasps to if she could stand the thought of being near _anyone_ when she was like this.

She swallowed, considered the burn in her eyes like she’d burst into tears at any second, then got up and grabbed her jacket off the back of Akira’s desk chair and headed out without a word.

Akira, being the most stubborn motherfucker in the world, refused to leave it at that. Akechi’s phone had three messages and a missed call by the time she was sitting down on her own couch. _Are you okay?_ the first one read. The second, timestamped to five minutes later: _was it something i did?_ and then, _i’m sorry._

Stupid, _stupid_ Akira. Stupid reckless idiotically forgiving Akira. Akechi wanted to smash her phone, gripped her skirt with both hands to prevent herself, then wished the Metaverse still existed so she could break through this grief by breaking herself against an enemy.

At least she knew how to take down a Shadow. She couldn’t explain her body, the artless desire to be broken by touch even as her entire being clearly rebelled against the notion.

 **Me:** _I’m okay_. _Nothing you did. You worry too much._

Akira sometimes said she worried exactly the right amount. She must not have been feeling antagonistic today—texted back in seconds, unafraid of her own investment in Akechi. 

**Kurusu:** _We still on for Friday at the restaurant?_

**Me:** _Yes._

Akechi grabbed a cushion, pressed it against her face, and screamed.

Lacking Akira’s talent for compartmentalization (Akechi had once asked her if she ever thought about what she’d done, killing god twice and saving the world, and when Akira had said _what’s to think about?_ Akechi had damn near lost her mind) she obsessed over what had gone wrong. She’s been alright, alright with Akira turning her brain to mush and running her hands over Akechi’s body. She’d been alright with the kissing.

Akira had asked her to moan, sure of her right to ask and sure that Akechi would comply. Akechi had _wanted_ to comply.

But compliance meant allowing her body to feel good in a way other people would know about, even if Akira was far from _other people_ and infinitely safer in all her danger. Compliance meant proving that Akechi _did_ and _could_ feel good, and that—

There was no way to explain that to a sane person. Akira was about the furthest thing from sane, but that was cold comfort right now.

Her worst expectations aside, her date with Akira went well. So well that she practically pounced on Akira when they were finally out of the restaurant, holding the lapels of her stupid hoodie and crushing their lips together. 

Akira kissed back, gentler than Akechi wanted, then pushed Akechi away. That was gentle too. Her grey eyes were carefully considering…something. Akechi, perhaps.

Akechi, unfortunately, panicked.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Akira said when she picked up the phone.

Akechi stared up at the ceiling of her room. “Sorry.”

She hated herself a second later for the reflexive nature of the apology, but Akira only sighed over the line. “If I’m doing something wrong,” she started.

“It’s not _always_ your fault,” Akechi said irritably. It never was, in fact. 

Akira restarted, “If there’s anything we can avoid—”

“Yes,” Akechi snapped. “Me.”

“Goro,” Akira murmured. She had that tone Akechi hated, like she was trying to be patient and Akechi was making it hard but Akira was too determined to give up. Or like Akechi had done something wrong, but Akira didn’t want to _say_ that. “You know you’re not doing it on purpose, right?”

 _That_ was unbearable. Akechi cut the call and tugged at her hair, wishing something would hurt just so she’d know what was hurting.

Akira had _no right_ to treat Akechi like her intentions were good when Akechi had proved time and again that they _weren’t_ , that she didn’t deserve that trust and would never earn it. If she deserved this kindness even a little, she’d cut Akira off and flee to the other side of the planet.

As it was she stayed and returned, draining Akira dry with sharp words and every time Akechi allowed Akira to think she was at fault because it was easier than admitting to both of them that Akechi was a perennial source of grief in the lives of everyone she’d ever cursed with her love.

Guilt and gravity drew her back to Leblanc. She rehearsed the explanation in her head, reminded herself that jumping off a bridge was always an option, then swallowed down the urge to apologize again when she saw Akira.

The shop wasn’t empty, but Akira kicked her customers out. She could be admirably unscrupulous like that.

 _It’s not you, it’s me,_ was a bad line. Akechi had come far too close to using it once already. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again. She searched Akira’s face for any hint of what she was thinking, found painfully little to go on, and blurted out, “I don’t know how to feel good.”

Akira blinked. “I know,” she said dryly.

Akechi went pink. “Not in _general,_ ” she huffed. Akira snorted disbelievingly. “Just…” she gestured vaguely at herself. “When you touch me.”

“And there I was thinking you were a prude,” Akira said, leaning forward. “Do you want some coffee?”

They tucked themselves into one of the booths with two mugs. Akechi stared into the depths of hers and wondered how she’d ever survive being known. When she looked up, Akira had rolled a newspaper up tight and was aiming at a corner of the shop with great focus.

 _Idiot,_ Akechi thought fondly.

“It’s important to stay in practice,” Akira protested at Akechi’s judgmentally raised eyebrow.

Then she lapsed into a hollow blankness. Akechi reached across the table for her hand, squeezing gently. Akechi missed the Metaverse like she missed a knife in her stomach, but Akira felt the loss like that of a home. 

“Drink your coffee,” Akira mumbled. Akechi obediently took a sip. “Is it nice?”

“Stop fishing for compliments,” she said. “Of course it is.”

Akira smiled. It was still a little vague, but she was clearly done thinking about whatever had made her sad because she pulled her hand back and squared her shoulders. “Okay, you were saying.”

Akechi had thoroughly forgotten what she was saying. She drank her coffee in grumpy silence, bearing the indignity of periodic kicks under the table from her incorrigible, juvenile girlfriend.

“We don’t have to do this today,” Akira said at last. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“No,” Akechi sighed. “I’ve come this far, haven’t I?”

Akira shrugged, kicking Akechi again. Akechi kicked back this time, stomach swarming with butterflies when it made Akira smile—quiet and private and sweet. Akira only smiled like that when it was the two of them. It bolstered Akechi’s courage.

“It’s not that you touched me. I know you think it is, but it’s not.”

“Oh,” Akira said. Some undefinable tension left her shoulders.

That was the hard part. Now came the humiliation. Akechi clenched her hands under the table. “I panic,” she forced out. She didn’t _like_ admitting to it. “When things feel good, I panic.” She frowned at the polished wood tabletop. “Not a word.”

“That makes sense.” Akira sounded thoughtful, twirling a pen between her fingers now. Incapable of sitting still. “Do you want to stop?”

“Stop kissing?” Akechi asked, patently horrified by the notion.

Akira grinned. “Okay, no.” She waved her hand vaguely. “I meant, like… we can pause for a few minutes, if you’re panicking. So you don’t have to _run away._ ”

That made sense. Sometimes Akechi didn’t know there was an easy way out until Akira led her down it—she wouldn’t have considered accommodating her own baffling insecurities as a solution.

“Hmm,” Akira said, then adopted a sly expression reminiscent of Joker. “Wanna try it out?”

Which was how Akechi ended up on Akira’s narrow bed again, Akira’s warm lithe body pressing against hers. Akira’s warm hands cupping her face, stroking Akechi’s body. Like this, she hardly remembered how much she disliked herself; being desired was supposed to feel like a scratchy sweater, but Akira’s was clean and hot and laced through with her personal brand of fierce and shameless caring and Akechi was, for once, distracted from questioning if she deserved it.

It was cold in the attic—Akira slept with blankets piled high—but Akechi wasn’t. Her nerves thrummed, body attuned to Akira’s touch and unable to resist arching into it. 

Maybe talking about her inability to feel good had loosened its hold on her—knowing Akira would stop when it got too much, knowing Akechi wasn’t trapped—it helped. Akechi grasped back at Akira, holding her close as her mouth bit hickeys below Akechi’s collarbone. No lower—not right now.

“Alright?” Akira asked. Akechi nodded quietly, then kissed the pale curve of Akira’s neck. Her skin was soft against Akechi’s mouth.

It was impossible to keep track of every touch. Akechi’s body felt hot, pleasure and the high of contact tangling with her oversensitive nerves, Akira’s hands anchoring her everywhere. Even Akechi’s cunt was warming up to the idea, stirring slowly.

“You feel so good,” Akira groaned. “Goro, sweetheart—”

Akechi squeezed her eyes shut, burying her head against Akira’s shoulder. “Akira,” she pleaded.

“So good,” Akira repeated. She was moving on top of Akechi—it took her a second to realize what Akira was chasing. She moved her thigh into place to help, but Akira stopped and peeled herself off Akechi. Her eyes were wild, face flushed, short hair messed up from Akechi’s fingers. “Are you sure?”

“Why would I not be?” Akechi asked, then hesitated. “Unless you expect _me_ to—” _come,_ she was going to finish, but Akira was already shaking her head.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she said roughly, then amended to, “Anything you don’t want to do. You’re—you have no idea,” she leaned down to kiss Akechi’s shoulder. “How many times I thought about this. _You_.”

Akechi tilted her head back to allow Akira better access. “What about me?” she asked, fishing for compliments. The urge to self-deprecate was on the tip of her tongue: _My ratty hair? My skinny ribs? The way I tried to kill you and then freaked out when you touched me?_

She didn’t get the chance—Akira looked up, expression _hungry._ “Yeah,” she said darkly. “You’re so—so _mine._ ”

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Akira had a possessive streak. Akechi’s brain short-circuited. She whimpered as Akira unbuttoned her own jeans, slipping a hand into her underwear to finger herself.

And then she shut up, because distracting herself from the sight of Akira pleasuring herself was inconceivable. Unforgivable. Akira threw her head back as her wrist moved in frantic little motions—too rough, but what did Akechi know? She sat up, putting her hands gently on Akira’s sides, then lifting them to touch her breasts.

Akira mostly avoided Akechi’s chest, sensing perhaps that Akechi was unsure of her limits there—she’d never asked Akechi to do the same, but Akechi had avoided it out of some awkward misplaced courtesy she was too gone to remember right now. It was clumsy, navigating what felt good for someone else on the fly; Akira moaned when Akechi squeezed gently, then made a delicious punched-out sound when Akechi pinched her nipples.

“Goro,” Akira ground out. “You’re—”

“Go on,” Akechi said breathlessly.

“So _good._ ” Akira’s face went slack, her mouth open in a silent gasp. Akechi pulled her forward against herself, crashing them both into the bed. “Goro…”

“You keep saying that,” she teased. She couldn’t help being pleased with herself right now. There was absolutely no question that she’d done something right, made Akira feel good despite not having the slightest clue how.

It felt nice. She was comfortable, pressed against Akira in every way that mattered. She was pleasantly wrung out, nerves lit up and burning steadily. The heat between her legs hadn’t faded—she simply ignored it, the wanting a steady glow at the center of her body. It fed everything else, dulled the edge of anxiety always crawling under her skin.

Akira hummed, wrapping an arm around Akechi. The fingers of her other hand were wet with slick. Akechi didn’t know what possessed her to grab Akira’s wrist, bringing it between them so she could suck Akira’s fingers into her mouth. Akira’s eyes widened with shock. She licked her reddened lips, the amazed look on her face bouying Akechi as she lapped at the wet-salty taste on Akira’s fingers. Like blood, but less iron, and the taste of Akira’s skin underneath. It felt nice to have something in her mouth. She wished, hazily, that she could stay like this forever.

It was not to be. Akira pulled her fingers out eventually, making Akechi shudder with loss. “Good girl,” she said gently. Akechi turned her head and hid it against Akira’s soft chest. “Baby.”

Akechi made an affronted sound to disguise how much the nickname appealed.

Akira was relentless. “You did so good today,” she continued. “Talking to me, letting me touch you and make you feel nice. Must’ve been hard for you, yeah?”

It _had_ been hard. It wasn’t anymore—nothing about Akira’s company was a hardship. Akechi could’ve stayed in her embrace forever, and couldn’t remember why she didn’t. She hummed, sunk deep into a soft space outside her head.

“Yeah,” Akira said, low and silky. “But you did it anyway. Such a good girl…”

 _No,_ some part of Akechi insisted. The rest of her snarled it into silence. 

By unspoken agreement, Akechi didn’t try to pull out of bed and return to her own apartment. She couldn’t have convinced herself to move if there had been elephants pulling her. Akira’s bed was too small, but it had Akira in it—her sheets smelled faintly like coffee and mostly like laundry soap and the cologne Akira used—Akira herself smelled like Akira, clean and sharp and reckless.

“Night,” Akechi whispered, then fell asleep before she could hear the reply.

She woke up at some point during the night when Akira slipped out of bed, lay awake listening to the rustle-shuffle of Akira changing out of her jeans and shirt into more comfortable clothes. She considered getting up to do the same herself, then forgot about it.

Akira was downstairs when Akechi woke up for real, dressed in a t-shirt that was Ryuji’s—if the gym bro slogan on it was anything to go by—and making coffee for Sojiro, who had taken one of the tables near the door and raised an eyebrow as Akechi entered. Akechi hadn’t bothered looking into a mirror or dealing with her hair before coming down, under the impression that no one but Akira would be there.

God, her hair was probably a _mess._ And she had no idea about the rest of herself. But Sojiro simply shook his head and looked back at the newspaper, and Akechi was prevented from escaping by Akira waving her enthusiastically over and putting a mug of coffee down on the counter.

It was all surprisingly peaceful. Akechi could not stop fidgeting with her hair, but apart from that the only sounds were Akira putting things away in the kitchen and Sojiro turning the newspaper.

She wondered if she should try to hold a conversation, then decided she couldn’t be bothered.

Sojiro left as Akira came out with a cloth in hand to wipe down the tables. “You know,” Akira said as the door shut behind him. “I realized this morning that—you didn’t come last night.” Her voice went up a little at the end, like a question.

“Yes,” Akechi said. She really didn’t want to talk about this. Akira paused in her movements, looking plaintive and put-upon. Akechi sighed. “I don’t usually. Even on my own.”

Akira made an aborted gesture. “Oh.”

“Never,” she clarified.

Akira looked positively wretched now.

“You’re welcome to try,” Akechi said generously.

Apparently Akira took that to mean _right away._ There was a dangerous look in her eyes as she flipped the sign on the door to closed and knelt in front of Akechi, fiddling with the zipper on her skirt.

Akechi tipped her head back, sliding one hand into Akira’s soft curls. Her body was alight with awareness leached into every corner, nerves singing with sensation as Akira made short work of undressing her down to her underwear, reaching forward to kiss her between the legs. Akechi gasped, swinging one leg over Akira’s shoulder. “No pulling,” Akira warned, like Akechi didn’t know that already.

Even without looking at what Akira was doing, it was overwhelming. Akechi wasn’t used to this brand of sensation—her body reacted without her input, moans spilling from her mouth as Akira kissed over her wet panties and then tugged them down, pressing the flat of her tongue against Akechi’s folds.

It felt _good._ She whimpered, pulling her hand out of Akira’s hair because she couldn’t keep herself from wanting to tug. And then she remembered—

“Akira…”

A hum, the vibrations flooding pleasure up Akechi’s spine. 

“Akira, _stop._ ”

That did the trick. Akira shifted back on her heels, eyes wide and guilty. “Are you alright?” she asked, nervous. “Did I do—hurt you?”

Akechi couldn’t find words for a second. It stopped her heart when Akira so easily took the fall for Akechi’s errors. It made her want to take Akira apart piece by piece, find the part that blamed herself first and swallow it.

“No,” she said. “No, it’s—” she gestured in the direction of the door. “Sakura-san could return anytime.”

Akira went red. “We should move,” she muttered.

They hurried upstairs. Akira twined their fingers together on the staircase, but that couldn’t quell the unease coursing through Akechi now. She felt _too_ aware of her body, its edges and limitations and inability to relax. Her heart was beating fast for an entirely different reason as Akira pulled their bodies flush against each other in her room, hands rough and gentle on Akechi’s face as they pulled her in for a kiss.

It was dizzyingly good—Akira kissed deep and hungry, making Akechi whine into her mouth and clutch at her shoulders as she kissed back. And then she was being pushed onto the bed, Akira kneeling in front of her once more.

The trepidation had faded somewhat. Akechi gulped in deep breaths and tried to center herself, failing when Akira began undressing her. “Can I?” she asked, a hand over Akechi’s chest.

Akechi nodded. Akira drew a finger over the swell of her breasts before getting to work on one button, her fingers shaking almost too badly to actually undo it. Akechi gasped a laugh and reached up to undo them herself.

She wasn’t prepared for the hungry concentration in Akira’s eyes when her shirt fell open. She bit her lip and cupped one of Akechi’s breasts, thumbing at the soft flesh over the cup.

“Get on with it,” she said softly. It wasn’t that she was uncomfortable with the scrutiny—it wasn’t quite discomfort to be looked at with so much desire, not when it was Akira—but she was unused to it, wanting to hurry them along.

“Yeah,” Akira swallowed. “Yeah, just—” she leaned down and kissed Akechi’s breast. Akechi’s breath hitched in her throat, but Akira didn’t stop kissing her—glancing pecks down her stomach and slow drags down her ribs. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispered against Akechi’s hip. “So beautiful, Goro, I can’t believe—”

Heat built steadily under Akechi’s skin, swelling inside her body and coalescing in her stomach and cunt. She thought she’d be wet and ready whenever Akira decided to move this further, but she neither knew nor cared when exactly that would be. It was enough to bask in the praise, to know Akira thought her desirable—against every good reason the world had printed into both of them, perhaps, but Akechi _was_ wanted.

“Can’t believe,” Akira said roughly. “That you’re _mine._ ”

Akechi’s body locked up treacherously, freezing her out like a door slamming shut. She sat up, suffocating suddenly, mind working overtime to figure out where she’d gotten stuck. She grabbed at the edges of her shirt, fingers tightening to the point of pain.

“Goro?” Akira asked. Eyes wide with fear and worry. Akechi shook her head, drawing further back.

“Keep going,” she ordered, like her skin wasn’t clammy and prickling with terror.

Akira sighed and pulled back. “No,” she said. “Tell me what happened.”

Akechi didn’t want to talk about it. For most of her life she’d been perfectly fine with not talking about things, and not thinking about things, and forgetting why she was in pain. It was a habit her mother—busy and burdened by her own issues—had encouraged. How many times had Akechi sat at a scratched-up kitchen table listening to her mother complain about her day and the men she had to work with, painfully sad for her and awkwardly grateful that she was being trusted with this? Only to realize hours later that her mother didn’t ask how Akechi was doing, frowned her pinched pretty frown when Akechi tried to tell her like knowing Akechi was being bullied at school and stared at by older men already made her mother unbearably unhappy.

She’d never belonged _anywhere._ She didn’t know how to fit in, and she didn’t know how to make her body cooperate now that she had Akira.

She wouldn’t have Akira if she kept shutting her out like this, but she couldn’t explain either. 

_This doesn’t make any sense,_ she thought despairingly. She wasn’t this _fragile_ —she’d never let herself hesitate at what she knew she had to do. But Akira kept insisting that Akechi didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to, and the choice confounded her more than she wanted to admit.

And she hadn’t frozen up like this any _other_ time Akira had called Akechi _mine_ in that nakedly possessive tone… _oh._ Of course.

For a moment she was disgusted with herself and her apparently instinctive tendency towards sick little power plays to establish that she could control Akira even when she had no reason to try and every reason to trust her.

“I should leave,” Akechi said stiffly. Every day brought another reason why she didn’t deserve to be loved by Akira. How ironic, that Akechi had spent years hankering after affection only to discover when she finally had it that she’d never, _ever_ be someone that could earn it. “I’m simply being difficult.”

Akira folded her arms under her chest. “I don’t buy that,” she said. “We’ve been over this, Goro. if you have a problem, you can te—”

“ _I don’t have a problem!_ ” Akechi snarled. “I don’t have a fucking problem with _anything,_ and if I did I’d tell you but this isn’t an _issue_ it’s just—” she gestured sharply at Akira “—you keep treating me like I’m delicate and innocent and I don’t know when you’re going to learn that I’m _not_ either of those things—”

“Hey,” Akira murmured.

“—I’m perfectly aware that I’m being unreasonable and contrary right now,” Akechi went on. “And your damned patience with my bullshit isn’t exactly _helping_ —”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Akira snapped. “Do you _want_ me to get angry?”

“It would certainly make _sense._ ” Her voice had risen to an embarrassing pitch. “Unlike, I don’t know, _everything else_ recently!”

Akira looked blank and tense, hunted. Akechi had made her look like that—hadn’t seen that look on Akira’s face except when Akira was furious and helpless and enraged by her helplessness. “I think,” Akira said, voice shaking with the effort of staying calm. “That you’re right. You should leave.”

Akechi didn’t wait to reconsider before fleeing.

It was a clear sign of the end. They’d had their little—their little _experiment,_ if that was what it was—and now Akechi had gone and fucked it up irreparably by her inability to have a normal relationship where she wasn’t using or being used (or both). She almost wasn’t surprised, just furious that she’d let either of them expect better. Akechi wasn’t _built_ for better. In some kinder universe she’d have died long before she could create Akira’s personal hell.

Akira didn’t deserve this. Akira was a wonderful person—affectionate and careful, intense and caged by her own determination to never let her sharp edges hurt anyone—unlike Akechi. It was just her ruinously bad luck that had led to her falling for her would-be murderer.

If the Metaverse had still been extant Akechi would’ve thrown herself screaming at a Shadow right now. Didn’t matter whether they deserved her rage. But that was just further proof that Akira deserved someone _nicer,_ and Akechi had never once been nice—not even when she tried.

In general Akechi was not given to emotions like guilt or regret. In practice she spent the rest of the day pacing blankly around her apartment, punching the walls like a teenager having a tantrum and wishing desperately that she was someone, _anyone_ other than herself. She’d never wanted that before Akira. She’d never let herself be so weak for anyone other than Akira, but—Akira was _trying_ and Akechi could not help wanting to be worth that effort.

She hadn’t the first clue how.

An apology was in order, but when she tried to think of what she’d say her mind recoiled from what she’d done, and the voice in her head sounded like the mask she’d worn as a Detective—smooth, saccharine, fake. Or maybe she could simply take herself out of Akira’s life altogether—but where did that leave _her?_ What other reason did she have to hold on and try to better herself?

Someday, Akechi promised herself, she wouldn’t be quite so painfully dependent on Akira for _everything._ Someday she’d be less needy. But she was starving _now_ and Akira was—always, stupidly—within reach.

She couldn’t have been more toxic if she tried, she realized, and made the executive decision to pop a couple of sleeping pills just so she wouldn’t be conscious enough to think.

When she woke up—head aching and fuzzy—it was to an insistent banging on her door. She dragged herself out of bed and barely glanced at herself in the mirror to make sure she didn’t look too bad before opening the door, clutching the handle for some much-needed balance at the sight of Akira.

Akechi considered herself a fairly good judge of appearance. Akira looked…worn. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her short, boyishly cut hair was sticking up in every direction. Her lips were chewed bloody. There was a curry stain on her black hoodie.

“Goro,” she said, sounding perplexingly relieved. “I tried calling you.”

“Oh,” Akechi said dumbly. “I think my phone…died.”

Akira stared hungrily at her. Akechi felt increasingly bemused by the scrutiny with each passing second. The end of her career meant she no longer cared whether she looked pretty or desirable, settling for presentable enough that she was unlikely to be thrown out of a shop for looking like an axe murderer. Akira looked at her like she was beautiful, even with crusty eyes and messy hair and two-day-old makeup.

It went on too long. “Akira,” Akechi said finally. “Why exactly are you here?”

“I wanted to see you,” Akira answered, sounding lost. “I…I felt bad. About making you leave.”

“You didn’t make me,” Akechi sighed. “I said I’d leave. And then you agreed. Because I was being,” she made an nonspecific gesture. “Weird.”

“Weird,” Akira repeated. Her mouth quirked up into the tiny private grin Akechi somewhat possessively thought of as hers and hers alone. “Are you ever normal?” She shook her head. “Don’t answer that. Can I come in?”

Akechi closed her mouth and stepped back, letting Akira inside—in true fashion she made her way right to the kitchen and began rifling through Akechi’s fridge for supplies.

There was nothing to do but sit at the island and watch Akira: the slope of her shoulders, the unruly tangle of her hair, the grace she couldn’t hide despite the slouch and the way she dragged her feet while walking. A few minutes later, the sizzling smell of frying eggs filled the kitchen. Akechi’s stomach helpfully reminded her that she hadn’t eaten in a few hours, and she was almost shamefully eager when Akira put the plate in front of her.

“Was this your plan?” Akechi asked, spearing a mouthful of egg on a fork. She had chopsticks somewhere, but Akira had put a fork on her plate. “To distract me with breakfast?”

Akira smiled winningly. “You hadn’t eaten yet,” she said.

“Why don’t _you_ become a detective?” Akechi snorted. 

“Actually,” Akira hesitated, setting her own plate on the island. “Where’s the ketchup?” Akechi pointed at a cupboard, then watched in undisguised disgust as Akira drizzled half a handful of ketchup over two eggs. “What’s that look for?”

“Does Sojiro know what you do to your food when he’s not looking?”

Akira went red. “I like the taste,” she said defensively. “It’s not _bad._ ”

“It’s a crime against your tastebuds,” Akechi said primly.

Akira sneered, adding another teaspoon of ketchup like she had a point to prove.

They ate in silence, because Akechi ate like a maniac and couldn’t talk with her mouth stuffed full. “More eggs?” Akira asked, when Akechi was done.

“No.” Akechi got up and opened the fridge, scanning the shelves for her prize. Located, she grabbed a couple of clean glasses and poured orange juice for both of them. “Vitamin C,” she said sternly to Akira’s glum expression. “It’s good for you.”

“Coffee is the only breakfast drink worth drinking,” Akira declared. Akechi slammed the mug down in front of her and whacked the side of her head. Akira yowled.

“ _Drink_ ,” she said dangerously.

Akira looked almost comically sad as she stared into the depths of her mug. “I’m never trying to be nice to you again,” she mumbled. 

“About that,” Akechi said, holding up a finger and finishing her juice in one long gulp. When she looked down, Akira was staring at her. “Why are you here again?”

Akira floundered. “Isn’t it enough that I wanted to see you?”

Akechi’s stomach squirmed. “Sentimental claptrap will get you nowhere,” she said stiffly.

“I wanted to say sorry.” She had that ridiculous hangdog look, mournful and desperate at once.

“And I don’t understand why _you’re_ the one apologizing,” Akechi said. Akira was starting to look so guilty she was going green. “Though I accept the apology, if it makes you feel any better,” she added generously.

Akira’s expression brightened at once. Akechi got up to clear off their plates, pouring Akira’s juice into the drain. “I pushed you too hard,” Akira said behind her, earnest in her conviction that this was still somehow her fault. “I knew you were still nervous about sex, and I—”

“This isn’t about sex,” Akechi interrupted, tossing the dishes into the sink with a brutal clatter. She was furious—at herself and at Akira. “This isn’t about you declaring that I’m yours, or any other version of events you’ve cooked up where you’re the one at fault.” She turned the faucet, pausing with her bare hands under the cold water. “You _know._ You know what I am, what people like me deserve. Just because I don’t feel guilt doesn’t mean I don’t deserve punishment.”

“I’m _not_ going to be the one to _punish_ you,” Akira cried. “And if that’s what you’re waiting for me to deliver, you’ll be waiting _forever._ I’m not fucking doing that, Akechi, not to _you._ ”

“I know!” Akechi felt frantic; her inability to say what she meant hurt Akira at the worst times. “I know—I would never ask that of you—but,” she paused, breathing heavily. “But how can I let myself forget? How can I—I let you be nice to me like I’ve earned it, like I’ll _ever_ earn it—what does that make _me_?”

She turned the water off. It was just going to waste, and her fingers were going numb. Her ears rang in the aftermath of that admission, her throat raw with the effort of holding back all the other ones that wanted to spill out at its heels.

Frozen in place, she jerked when Akira’s arms wound around her, settling in a loose hold in front of her stomach. “You’re only human, Goro,” Akira whispered. “You’re allowed to be loved.”

That didn’t feel true. It _wasn’t_ true. Akechi had done too much wrong to qualify for humanity, and she’d never liked the idea of being a part of that blithering mass of idiots anyway. But that blithering mass of idiots was allowed to care and be cared for, and Akechi _wasn’t._ She’d shed that right every time she’d chosen violence even as it was the only option presented to her.

“I know you don’t believe it,” Akira continued quietly, resting her head against Akechi’s shoulder. “I’ll believe it for you. Just…will you _try_ to let me be nice to you?”

“You set the bar so low,” Akechi said dryly, “that you must think quite highly of me.”

Akira shook against her, a short laugh. “You know I do,” she murmured. “But I know it’s hard to trust something. Especially something unfamiliar.”

Akechi’s breath caught. Was she so transparent? She looked down at Akira’s loose grip on her and turned in place, catching her lips in a hard kiss. She’d wanted it to be nicer, but she could never get enough of Akira—tangling her wet fingers in Akira’s hair, gripping the collar of her hoodie with the other. 

“Hey,” Akira breathed against her mouth. 

“Hey yourself,” Akechi breathed back. She slowed down without thinking about it, enjoying the warmth and comfort of being so close to Akira, sharing her space and air. She closed her eyes and put her head on Akira’s shoulder, swaying slightly in place.

“You’re cute,” Akira sighed. 

Akechi flushed, but she couldn’t be bothered to respond past a light punch to Akira’s side. 

“You are!”

Akechi snuck a hand under her shirt to pinch her, but Akira began laughing. She wasn’t ticklish everywhere, but her sides were strangely sensitive to a light touch. “Goro, Goro. Stop. Promise me something?”

Akechi stopped. “What?”

Akira slumped under her. “No, nothing,” she mumbled. “It’s selfish.”

“Oh, no.” Akechi lifted her head to glare at Akira. “If I’m allowed to be—” she shrugged “— _this,_ and have you not mind, then you’re allowed to be as selfish as you like.”

“Yeah,” Akira whined. “But…”

“No buts,” Akechi said sharply. “What is it?”

“Don’t leave,” Akira said in a rush. “Don’t leave when I’m angry. I don’t.” She ground to an abrupt halt, frowning with the effort of parsing her own emotions. Akechi’s heart ached for her—for all that Akira was a perfect sounding board for everyone else, she could rarely figure herself out.

She reached up to cradle Akira’s face. “I won’t,” she promised. “Too many people are cowards about your anger already.”

Akira blinked owlishly at her. “I wasn’t even that mad,” she said defensively. 

“Hush.” Akechi rolled her eyes, then leaned in to kiss Akira again. “You haven’t showered yet, have you?”

“No,” Akira mumbled. “I just threw on a change of clothes and came here.”

“Idiot,” Akechi said smoothly. “As it turns out, I haven’t showered either.” Some part of her frowned at her boldness; another wanted to reassure Akira too badly to care. The rest was simply selfish. “And seeing as I have a rather serviceable and _private_ bathroom…”

“You’re a menace,” Akira laughed. 

Akechi shrugged. “Are you coming?” 

Akira was coming. Akechi’s bathroom was just barely big enough to fit both of them, but Akira goggled a little at the shelves of product like she’d never seen anything like them before, and somehow that made Akechi feel slightly better about stripping out of clothes and then prodding at Akira until she took off her own. She threw them on top of the pile of Akechi’s clothes, then spent about thirty excruciating seconds balancing her glasses on the rim of the toothpaste mug.

Perhaps it was asking too much of Akira’s self-control to wait until they had showered. No sooner than Akechi had stopped fiddling with the temperature dial that Akira was backing her into the wall. 

Akechi shivered at the first press of warm skin against cold tile. “Akira,” she started. “For heaven’s sake, would you—” She was cut off with a kiss, ferociously deep on Akira’s terms. She sagged against the wall, then gathered herself and pushed Akira away again. “Greedy pervert,” she grumbled. “ _Wait_ a little.”

Akira pouted. Akechi turned the shower on.

Despite her best efforts, though, she didn’t quite _want_ to keep her hands off of Akira. She liked this as much as sex, as much as kissing; the rare moments when Akira submitted to being cared about that coincided with Akechi feeling like she was capable and worthy of caring.

She didn’t _feel_ particularly capable right now, more tired and unwilling to deny herself simple pleasures. She felt warm and hazy at the edges like she was turning into steam herself as she rubbed shampoo gently into Akira’s hair. She looked surprisingly vulnerable, with her head in Akechi’s hands and water dripping down the pale curve of her neck and shoulders. Vulnerable, and trusting. Akechi’s entire body ached at the sight, heat squeezing through her. She ran her fingers through soaped-up hair and tried to be gentle, because anything else right now would’ve been unforgivable.

She had to wash it out eventually, though. She pressed the side of her hand against Akira’s forehead to keep the water from going into her eyes. And then the next bit—“Conditioner,” she informed Akira, who hummed indifferently.

Her hair was so soft and lovely in Akechi’s cruel hands. For a moment she felt terrified—of what she could do that Akira could not defend against.

Then she recalled Akira saying, _you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,_ and the momentary fear faded. She _didn’t_ want to hurt Akira. That had to count for something, even with her. 

She tapped Akira’s damp upper arm when she was done. “Thanks,” Akira said lazily, stretching and turning in place.

Akechi swallowed at the sight of water running down the slopes of Akira’s breasts, over her pale pink nipples. She opened her mouth and closed it again, swallowing. “You’re welcome,” she mumbled, avoiding Akira’s eyes.

Akira had no such compunctions. “Want me to do your hair too?” she asked, staring openly at Akechi’s body. Akechi wondered what she saw between the scars and water, if she could tell by sight that Akechi’s nipples ached and had since they stepped inside. It was silly—of course Akira couldn’t just _know_ that, but the thought remained. 

“No,” Akechi said quickly. “Thank you.”

“Hmm.” Akira tilted her head, heavy gaze fixed on Akechi in a way that seemed distinctly calculating. “I want to pay you back,” she purred.

“Touch me,” Akechi said, after only floundering for a brief moment. “Inside.” 

Akira grinned like a wolf, turning off the shower and turning Akechi gently, pushing her until she was leaning against the wall. “Stay there,” Akira ordered, crowding her against the wall and squeezing her hip. “Good girl.”

A shiver ran through Akechi even though it was steaming hot in the bathroom. The hand on her hip moved down her thigh, slick with water. Akechi’s mouth opened in a silent gasp. Akira kissed the back of her neck, still touching her thighs, dragging her nails against the tender skin at the inside, up and up and _almost_ there before drawing back down. It was a tantalizing dance, inexorable despite Akechi’s efforts to make Akira move faster. Akira laughed at the way Akechi tried to hitch her hips forward, then grabbed her cunt in a sudden rough grip.

All the breath left Akechi’s lungs in a punched-out gasp. But Akira had already let go, returning to the same teasing movements of earlier. Akechi was so wet her knees felt unsteady, unable to hold her up. 

“Deep breaths, princess,” Akira murmured. “Think you can take me now?”

Akechi nodded. “Hurry,” she said, voice breaking embarrassingly over the word.

“Patience, my little princess,” Akira admonished. The nickname was so over-the-top sacharinne that it should’ve made Akechi ill—instead she felt dizzy and thrilled, desperate for another taste. 

She got one soon enough. Akira’s fingers slipped gently inside her dripping hole. She sighed, relieved and needy. Akechi’s nerves sang with sensation as Akira worked her up, pressing one finger in to the knuckle then another, scissoring inside Akechi. Pleasure dripped through her like water off the walls, reducing her to a languorous and delighted ache.

The pleasure drove up another notch as Akira stroked her clit. She groaned, turning her head and raising an arm so she could hide her face in her elbow and bite at her forearm. “Enough,” Akechi said weakly, unsure of how much more she could take.

“You can come,” Akira said roughly. “Now, Goro.”

It should’ve been magic, the permission her body hadn’t known it was waiting for; instead she could only shake her head and pump her hips forward again, trying to take Akira’s fingers in deeper like that would help. 

“I can’t,” she snapped, frustrated and annoyed with herself. “I can’t, I’m useless—”

“Goro,” Akira said sharply. “Hush.”

Akechi shut up, scowling at the wall.

“Did you feel good?” Akira asked softly. “Even for a little while?”

“Yes,” Akechi sighed. “‘Course I did. For a _while._ I just—” wanted to _not_ be a broken thing, for once. Wanted to do something right, for _once._

“Alright,” Akira murmured, almost to herself. “Akechi, listen to me. You can’t—you can’t force yourself, okay? This isn’t something you have to push through, or convince yourself about. You’ll know when it happens. You’re not going to get there faster by being mad at yourself.”

Akechi snorted. “It’s like you don’t know me,” she grumbled ineffectually. It was good advice. Akechi was simply immune to such things. “Get out, let me finish up in here.”

Akira kissed her, slow and deep, before walking out. Akechi turned the temperature of the water up and stared at her foggy reflection in the mirror on the shelf. She could make out the colour of her hair, her skin. No scars, no features. She scowled at that too, then cleaned herself up in the most businesslike fashion she could manage.

When she came out, Akira was sprawled on the bed on her back, fingers that had been inside Akechi only moments ago exploring herself. She grinned when she saw Akechi. “Hope you don’t mind,” she drawled.

“I won’t if you let me,” Akechi tripped over the next word. “Help.”

“If you want to,” Akira said. Akechi nodded jerkily. “C’mere, then.” She sat up, a hand braced behind her for balance. “Alright, then.” She pointed at the floor with her other hand. There was a teasing glint in her grey eyes, like she didn’t know either if Akechi would obey but wanted to find out.

Akechi took a deep breath and lowered herself.

“Oh, princess,” Akira sighed, putting her hand on Akechi’s hair. “Hands behind your back. You can do this with your mouth, I know you can.”

“Do what?” Akechi asked, heart beating a graceless mile a minute. 

Akira gave her that same wolfish grin. “Use that smart mouth and find out,” she ordered, pointing eloquently at her cunt.

Well, Akechi had never backed down from a challenge. 

Akira tasted sweet-sour, like candy. And it wasn’t as messy as Akechi had feared it would be—not that it mattered, she realized, at the first flutter of Akira’s folds against her tongue. She’d be willing to get a lot dirtier to have Akira come undone like this. She licked deeper, harder, sucked experimentally at Akira’s clit. Akira actually groaned at that, loud but muffled by what might’ve been an arm or pillow.

Akechi didn’t look up to check. Instead she went to town, working with what she knew was successful and branching out recklessly when she wasn’t. Perhaps the lack of experience made it a rather tedious time for Akira, but the way Akira was tugging at hair indicated otherwise.

And Akechi could tell when she came, because she made a broken-whimpery sound that Akechi had never heard before and wanted to hear forevermore.

Unfortunately, Akira patted her hair gently and then rolled over and fell asleep. Akechi rose unsteadily to her feet, considered the pulsing need between her own legs, and thought about Akira asking _did you feel good?_

That was an easy question: Akechi felt good right now. Unsatisfied and frustrated, but also bizarrely pleased with herself. The emotion was surreal in its own way.

Bemused, Akechi went to get dressed.

Though she was no longer a part-time detective, she was still on track to be a consultant for the SIU. Shido had pulled strings to get her in; she’d rapidly realized she’d go nowhere with all his help if she couldn’t hold her own against the bureaucrats and sleazy men that occupied every rung of the ladder she’d fought tooth and nail to even begin climbing. 

That meant work, though. Akira dozed on, unaware, as Akechi combed through files. Her skin felt strange as she read, warm and prickly all over. She pressed the heel of her hand to the crotch of her pants, idly contemplating a break, then shook herself off and kept reading.

She got through it somehow. 

Akira woke up a few hours later and lazed around on the couch for a while, messing with her phone. “Hey,” she said.

Akechi hummed.

“Nothing,” Akira decided.

“You’re a distraction,” Akechi said absently, even though she longed for one right now. She wanted to finish this first.

Akira radiated smugness as she got up and swept past Akechi on her way to the kitchen, pausing and backtracking at the door to kiss Akechi on top of her head. Akechi swatted uselessly at her, but Akira ducked out of the way easily.

“So like,” Akira said over lunch. “You can’t come.”

Akechi had hoped they were done talking about this. “Yes,” she said shortly. “Apparently not.”

“Maybe I’m just bad at sex,” Akira mused.

“Really the worst,” Akechi replied. “It’s like you learnt how to fuck from how-to videos on amateur porn websites.” She’d personally never willingly watched porn, out of some ingrained distaste for recordings of people having sex.

Akira perked up. “Amateur porn is much better than you’d expect,” she said enthusiastically. “The video quality is variable, but the professional studios always overdo the emotion. If you know where to look, you can tell that most of the people in amateur porn are actually into each other and having f—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Akechi said flatly. “I’m _not_ interested.”

“‘Course you are,” Akira said cheerfully.

Akechi rolled her eyes. “We don’t all share your mania for sex.”.

“You basically just told me I’m good at sex,” Akira said, sounding overly satisfied with herself. Akechi rolled her eyes again, more derisively. “Anyway, that’s not the point. You can’t come.”

“ _Can’t_ is correct,” Akechi said sourly.

“Can I try some things?” she asked. “Not like, bad things. I’ll be nice.”

Akechi stared suspiciously at her. “What are you thinking?”

“It’ll be good,” Akira promised. “I have a plan.” And then she would say no more.

Akira vanished soon after, barely pausing to kiss Akechi over the island before excusing herself on the grounds of some part-time job or another. Akechi knew she was lying, but let her go. The warm itch had faded, leaving behind a mushy feeling like bruised apple pulp. 

She scowled at what remained of her work and then decided she couldn’t be arsed to do anything other than watch Featherman reruns for the rest of the day.

Late at night she realized she’d missed dinner, and wandered into the kitchen to face her prospects. Affection bloomed in her at the sight of two boxes of food side-by-side in the fridge, a cheery post-it stuck to the side proclaiming them _dinner!_ and _lunch!_ respectively. Akira was an undeserved blessing. She reheated one of the boxes and fell asleep on the couch after it was done, face pressed against the arm.

Her mother had never talked to her about sex. Maybe she considered such topics beyond her daughter’s purview—she’d always tried, in her own clumsy ways, to guard Akechi from the world (and how well that had gone).

 _No_ one had never talked to her _about_ sex. She’d been propositioned, by fans and men who didn’t know better and strangers on the internet.

Maybe that was why she kept thinking about Akira’s clear interest in sex not as an act but as a topic of conversation, something that could be held up to the light and discussed in detail. Akechi wasn’t sure how much detail Akira could plumb out of it. She didn’t know if she wanted to find out.

Akira returned two days later. Her plan—if it could be called that—hinged on brute force. She was holding a half-open cardboard box that, when Akechi peered inside, contained more sex toys than any single person would ever be able to use.

“No,” Akechi said flatly. Akira pulled out an enormous purple _thing,_ too large to ever fit inside a human orifice. “No,” she repeated, but she could feel the breathiness in her voice.

Akira leered.

“We can’t possibly use all of those,” Akechi pointed out. “There’s not enough time.”

“I can come back,” Akira shrugged, dropping the thing back inside. “We don’t have to use all of them, they’re just to give you…options. Hell, I bet you won’t even be into most of the things we try.”

 _We,_ Akechi thought, throat dry. “Have you,” she started, then swallowed. “Have you tried any of them?”

Akira rifled through the box, coming up with a small metal thing and a longer thinner thing. “These are vibrators,” she said briskly. “I should’ve thought of this earlier, honestly—” She leaned down and picked up another thing. “This too.”

“Not the other thing?” Akechi asked, fascinated against her will.

“What, the dildo?” Akira said brazenly. “No, I don’t really like it.” She made a face. “Don’t like…things inside me. Uh.”

“That’s alright,” Akechi said hastily. She knew Akira had been beaten up and bloodied, and Akira had never indicated there was _more_ to it than that, but they also didn’t _talk_ about it and Akechi was never quite sure whether or how to broach that silence. 

Akira had lapsed into a contemplative silence. “I suppose I never asked if you like it,” she frowned. “I just assumed.”

“I do like it,” Akechi said reassuringly, and then went red. She hadn’t known she could admit that, but it was true. There was something about Akira’s fingers inside her, touching her where she was soft and hot and vulnerable. It wasn’t the kind of thing Akechi would have let herself like before Akira.

“Good.” Akira’s eyes had gone hot and dark. “So, wanna try it out?”

Akechi balked when she was sitting on the bed, half her clothes off. Akira was still dressed in her shirt and jeans, holding the box, watching as Akechi froze in the middle of unbuttoning her blouse. “I don’t think this is wise,” she said in a rush. “Really, it’s simply—too much effort. For anyone to go through. For orgasms. It’s not like I don’t have fun having sex with you anyway, so I don’t see why we need to bother with—”

“Hey,” Akira said. “Goro. Shut up.” 

Akechi kept babbling. Akira put the box on the bed and sat down next to Akechi, pulling her in without asking. Akechi finally shut her mouth, resting her head against Akira’s shoulder.

“Why is it scary?” Akira asked softly.

“It’s not _scary_ ,” Akechi scowled. “I really don’t think it’s worth it.”

Akira was pointedly silent.

“It’s a little bit scary,” Akechi wailed. “You’re going to put things _inside_ me. _Things._ ”

“You’re not scared of needles,” Akira pointed out, because she was and needed her hand held through every flu shot and Akechi had laughed herself to tears when she found out. She wanted to smile just thinking about it.

“Those are sharp,” Akechi said unthinkingly.

They both paused to consider the implications of that.

“I’ll do it,” Akechi sighed. “I suppose it’s worth trying. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I could scare you off of sex forever.” _Akira_ sounded worried now.

She snorted. “Unlikely.” She shoved Akira away and pulled her blouse off her head, stripping out of her clothes without meeting Akira’s increasingly hungry eyes. They followed her as she walked to the dresser drawer, lingering on her back and thighs as she located her prize and returned to hand it to Akira.

“Ah,” Akira said intelligently. “For?”

“Hands and eyes,” Akechi said briskly.

“Not hands,” Akira snapped.

Guilt came on at odd times, like now, because she knew she’d put that half-scared tone in Akira’s voice. “Just eyes,” she amended.

Akira picked up the black tie, leaving the striped one alone. Akechi threw it on the bedside table and climbed back onto the bed, kneeling at the edge and looking up at Akira with her bravest face on. 

“Hey,” Akira said softly. She tucked a lock of hair behind Akechi’s ears. “Sorry.”

Sorry for _what?_ For the fact that Akechi had arranged for her to be caught and beaten half to death so Akechi would have an easier time finishing the job? “Get on with it,” she ordered.

“Alright,” Akira murmured. “Eyes closed.” She looped the tie around Akechi’s head, knotting it at the back of her head. “There, can you see?”

“No,” Akechi said. She hated the feeling of being watched and unable to watch back, but she owed Akira this trust. She owed it to herself to give it to Akira, even if it couldn’t put a dent in her debt to Akira—her kindness and faith and care.

Akira didn’t respond except to pat Akechi’s head.

Being blindfolded accentuated her remaining senses. Akira could be awfully quiet when she wanted to be, but Akechi was now paying attention to the sound of her breaths, to the brush of air against her skin as Akira moved around her. She couldn’t think properly, though, like the lack of visual input meant she couldn’t classify the world either.

She gasped when Akira touched her chest, pushing her lightly back. “Relax,” Akira said. “Lie back. I’m starting with—with the vibrator.”

“Akira?” Akechi asked, swallowing.

“Yeah?”

“You won’t leave, right?” She didn’t know where the question came from the second it slipped out of her mouth. Why was this a thing she was scared of, like she couldn’t reach up and tug the blindfold off anytime she liked?

Akira made a soft sound. “I won’t leave,” she said roughly. “I’m gonna be right here the entire time.”

“Okay,” Akechi said, and tried to relax.

A faint buzz started up, incongruently loud with the blindfold on. She strained to see it, realized she couldn’t, panicked for half a second then tried to remember herself and relax. It didn’t work. The buzz came closer; the bed dipped as Akira climbed on. The vibrator touched her shoulder, a full-body flinch tensing her muscles.

“That’s what it feels like,” Akira said softly, somewhere above her. “Think you can take it?”

“Yes,” Akechi said. She wasn’t sure, but she wouldn’t admit that now, and anyway she’d come this far. The vibrations moved lower down her chest. The only analogue Akechi could recall was the time she’d been electrocuted, except focused in a small area. She tensed further as Akira pressed the instrument against the side of her breast, slowly moving it inside. The sensation was _odd_ once she got used to it, not scary so much as unnerving.

It was even more unnerving when it pressed against her nipple, a wave composed of discomfort and pleasure shooting through her. Some part of her insisted that it felt good—the rest remained terrified.

She’d dealt with far worse. No sense in being scared now, even if Akira had an odd way of disincentivizing bravery in her.

Akira took the vibrator away without warning. “I wonder if this would work better if you did it,” she said. “I think this is too unpredictable otherwise.” The buzz switched off, and Akechi blinked against the blindfold.

“Well,” she said. “Yes, okay. Give it here.”

“I’m going to put your finger on the dial, so you can adjust it if you like.” Akira lifted Akechi’s hand, pressing the vibrator into it and positioning Akechi’s thumb over the tiny dial. Akechi felt around the rest of it, found the off/on button, and turned it on. It wasn’t as heavy as she’d somehow expected, and she figured it out pretty quickly even blind.

And then, out of some urge to prove to herself that she _could,_ she pressed the vibrator against her cunt. She wasn’t particularly artful about it, simply letting it rest against the wet folds, but even so this was easier. 

This was _better._ The stimulation was the strangest thing, but she heard her breath hitch in the first moment and then she couldn’t think what to do with it. She brought her hand away, numb and shocked that anything could make her feel even remotely as good as Akira did. 

Akira made a soft sound, placing her warm hand on Akechi’s thigh. “Fuck, I didn’t expect you to just—just go for it,” she laughed. “You know what foreplay is, right?”

“Yeah,” Akechi grunted. “Boring.”

“ _Goro,_ ” Akira started. “Oh, let me help.” Her hand was _there_ before Akechi could respond, fingers around Akechi’s and steadying the vibrator in her nerveless grip to guide it to her clit, steady and sure of herself. Akechi closed her eyes and whimpered as it touched her, her other hand clenching at the sheets.

It felt so good, she could hardly remember to breathe. She could hardly remember where her body was or what it was doing, despite the awareness burnt into her by fighting in the Metaverse where things could change without a moment’s notice.

She didn’t _like_ being unaware of her body. She forced herself back into it even though it was overwhelming, digging her heels into the mattress and bringing herself under control.

The sensation was no longer so overwhelming, could be parsed into bits that made sense; the pressure on her clit, the way Akira was holding her hand, the blindfold and the heightened apprehension it brought about, the wet-hot ache between her legs that only pulsed deeper and deeper with every passing second—but no matter how deep it plowed into her, she’d never get _there,_ wherever that elusive place was—she’d _never—_

Akechi tore off the blindfold, sat up gasping. She felt like she’d stepped out of a shower into an unheated room, shivery and oversensitive to the point of pain.

“Well,” Akira said grimly. “That lasted longer than I thought it would.”

It was a rude remark—Akechi was too busy trying to breathe to respond in kind, but she did punch Akira’s arm hard enough to leave a red imprint. “I don’t know what’s _wrong_ with me,” she said venomously. “I hate it, I hate it, I hate—”

“Goro,” Akira interrupted. “I know. I _know_ you hate it, okay? We’re working on it. Please breathe. Deep breaths, now.”

“I know,” Akechi mumbled sourly. “Shut up.”

Stupid body. Stupid her and her fucking issues and her ten thousand ways of making a good thing bad. Stupid Akira for ever thinking anything would work, for having faith in someone as broken as Akechi. This was all so _stupid._ Why had she let herself think it would work?

“Do you want to try something else?” Akira asked, strained.

“Yes,” Akechi said, pushing as much sarcasm into a single syllable as she could. “Yes, definitely, let's stick that enormous purple thing up my cunt and pretend it can fix whatever idiotic thing is wrong with me—”

“Okay, _firstly,_ ” Akira said, sounding irate. “This isn’t—you’re not _broken,_ okay? There’s nothing wrong with you, and we’re not out to fix this like—this isn’t like a hole in the wall that you have to plaster up, we— _I_ want you to have an orgasm because they _feel good,_ not because it’ll serve as proof that you’re not a lost cause—”

“No, we already know that,” Akechi muttered.

“—Oh, _fuck_ off,” Akira finished.

There was a second’s silence, as Akechi did not want to make Akira leave and couldn’t very well leave her own apartment. She resented the attempt to make her feel better, but she couldn’t articulate her distaste for it in a way that wouldn’t upset Akira further, and an upset Akira was the last thing Akechi had the presence of mind to deal with right now. It was quite clear that Akira _was_ quite mad still—she sat in front of Akechi, fuming with the impervious air of the self-righteous.

Probably about something silly, like Akechi’s self-loathing. She had a tendency to get quite worked up about that sort of thing.

“I’m going to sleep,” Akechi said shortly. “You can stay.” She meant it as much with all the room she had left over to honour Akira’s wishes at a time like this. She got up and stalked to her wardrobe, painfully conscious of Akira staring as she pulled out nightclothes and went into the bathroom to put them on just to put some distance between herself and Akira.

Akechi gave herself a few seconds of zoning out in the bathroom, lightheaded and miserable with it. Miserable in general, actually. She wanted…she wanted Akira to not hate her. Even that seemed like asking for too much.

Akira was gone by the time Akechi stepped out. She threw herself into bed and tugged the sheets over her, head aching and body a dead weight she was forced to occupy.

She didn’t even know if Akira had left or chosen to sleep on the couch. She might have heard the door slam, but doors could be closed quietly, and people could leave with no trace they’d ever been there at all.

But the room still smelled like sex.

Akira was definitely gone by the time Akechi wandered out the next morning. There was a cup of coffee on the counter in the kitchen, a coaster set over top to keep it from cooling. Akechi almost poured it down the drain before deciding that no one was around to see her drink it, and drank it, and felt only a little better afterwards.

If there was any one thing Akechi could be sure of, it was that Akira would not be the first to apologize this time. She didn’t think she’d done anything wrong (maybe she hadn’t) and she wouldn’t let Akechi off the hook even if it meant the end of whatever _this_ was. Dating.

At least, Akechi _thought_ Akira wouldn’t let this slide. Her capacity for forgiveness was humbling, and sometimes made Akechi contemplate a return to being a career killer just to ensure that people didn’t take advantage of Akira. But there was little she could do about the conflict of interest when she herself was at fault.

And if Akechi didn’t apologize, maybe Akira would come back, but they wouldn’t be better off for it, and Akira would resent her, and _that_ was terrifying.

Her mother had resented her, near the end. There was love, and there was the bitter weight of knowing that she wouldn’t have her mother if her mother had any choice in the matter—a knowledge that only crystallized after her mother made that choice in the most permanent fashion.

Akechi paced her apartment for days, slowly working through the burnt mess inside her. It _took_ that long. She was never easy, not even when it came to herself. 

She scrolled through their chat history for the weekly schedule Akira had once sent her and contemplated her options. If she called during lunch, at least Akira would only have ten minutes to do damage. On the other hand, Akechi still hadn’t uncovered whatever had freaked her out this time—she _had_ to call, she couldn’t figure this out on her own—but she didn’t know how to have a conversation that fixed things if she didn’t know what had broken.

She _never_ knew how to have a conversation that fixed things.

Cowardice would not serve her well; she called Akira. “Is this because I said I’m a lost cause?” she asked without preamble.

“Yeah,” Akira said. “I’ll call you back after work.”

Akechi put her head in a cushion and screamed.

Staring at Akira’s schedule did not make time go by faster. Neither did working, or cleaning the kitchen, or any one of the half a dozen activities Akechi half-heartedly attempted in a craven effort to avoid the screaming voice in her mind that had decided she was going to lose the only person alive who believed in her because Akechi had _finally_ insisted on something hard enough to get through Akira’s thick skull.

“Okay,” Akira said, the second Akechi picked up the phone. “I’m home now. You were saying.”

Akechi could not remember what she’d meant to say. “Why this time,” she said, and it came out sounding sulky and childish. “I’ve said worse.”

“I was trying to say something _important._ ” Weird how Akechi could imagine perfectly how Akira would say it, sitting at her desk with the chair pulled out so she could put her feet on the bed—probably twirling a pen in one hand, or playing with a hairband. “You never even _try_ to listen.” 

“Oh,” Akechi said, feeling very dumb. And then, with great difficulty, “I’m sorry.”

“Let’s say I believe you,” Akira muttered.

Akechi stared blankly ahead, straining to see past the blur.

“That was uncalled for,” Akira said, some interminable length of time later. “Sorry.”

 _Again_ with the apologies when she hadn’t done anything wrong. Akechi cut the call, too furious to speak without shouting, and opened up the chat window. At least Akira couldn’t interrupt her if Akechi finished saying her thing before Akira knew it.

**Me:** _you need to stop apologizing when you haven’t said/done anything wrong. it’s not like you were incorrect, and i can hardly expect you to mince words because i’ve come to rely on the way you perceive me as fragile. and stop trying to call me, i’m not going to pick up._

**Kurusu:** _i accept the apology btw_

**Me:** _you have no reason to believe me, as you yourself figured out._

**Kurusu:** _no i do_  
**Kurusu:** _you’re trying_

**Me:** _that’s awfully condescending. i can’t tell whether the insult is that you don’t believe me capable of better and therefore don’t expect it or that my failed efforts are amusing enough to make up for their failure._

**Kurusu:** _i hate texting you type so fast_

**Me:** _don’t waste your time talking about my typing speed then?_

**Kurusu:** _fuck_  
**Kurusu:** _can’t we just do this on the phone?_

Akechi knuckled her eyes and shook her head even though there was no one around to see her—undeniably a good thing, this entire thing was painful enough already.

**Me:** _no._

**Kurusu:** _ugh fine_  
**Kurusu:** _look i just dont think youre a lost cause. i’m never going to think that._ _  
_ **Kurusu:** _and i don’t “perceive you as fragile” you literally are i’m sorry that’s so upsetting to hear or whatever_

**Me:** _as a general note if you put something inside quotation marks it should be an actual quote._  
**Me:** _whether or not i’m fragile isn’t the point; you treat me as though i’m incapable of hurting you by virtue of my fragility. we know that’s not true, and it’s a disservice to both of us to pretend it is._ __  
**Me:** _and clearly i have hurt you._ _  
_ **Me:** _so._

**Kurusu:** _and you treat yourself like you never get hurt. i don’t see your point_

**Me:** _i don’t know how much more clear i can be._

**Kurusu:** _PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE_

Akechi swallowed and accepted the call. “You’re making a huge deal out of this,” Akira started. “It’s not a big deal.”

“ _You_ left,” Akechi pointed out.

“I thought you wanted me gone,” Akira muttered. 

Akechi laughed hysterically. She’d wanted so badly for Akira to reassure her that it was okay that she hadn’t gotten it right, but she hated constantly being the one that needed reassurance. 

“Okay, maybe not,” Akira acknowledged.

“No,” Akechi said, subsiding into dryness. “Don’t pretend you were doing what you thought I wanted. We both know better.” She picked at a scab on her knee. She didn’t even remember when she’d injured herself. This hurt to say. “If you can’t tell me whether I’ve hurt you, then we might as well give up on being together.”

“You don’t mean that.” Akira sounded horrified.

“I do,” Akechi snapped. “I don’t like the idea either, but you can’t stay with someone who hurts you—” She wanted to laugh again, that ship had _sailed_ “—you don’t trust me, and I don’t trust you to tell me that.”

Akira was quiet for a long time, so long Akechi checked that she hadn’t hung up. 

“I was mad at you,” Akira said finally. “And I thought you were mad at me, and I didn’t want both of us to be mad at each other, so I left. I should’ve realized that’d just make everything worse.”

Akechi groaned. “You can’t expect yourself to predict _everything._ ” She paused. “Why were you mad at me?”

“It was stupid.”

“ _Tell me._ ”

“I was mad because—because I was trying so _hard_ and nothing was working. And, uh. I lied, you know. I didn’t go to work today, I’ve just been in bed. All day.”

Akechi smiled, half-glad Akira wasn’t around to see her. “Nice to know our hero has human emotions _sometimes,_ ” she drawled. “It’s not like I wasn’t mad at myself too.”

“Yeah, but it’s not _fair_ ,” Akira whined. “You know it’s not fair.”

“Emotion is like that, Akira,” Akechi snorted. “Get used to it.”

“You’re not mad?” Akira asked hesitantly. “About, y’know…”

“Am I mad at you for being mad at me about something I’m also mad at myself for?” Akechi asked archly.

“Put like that—”

“You’re going to be angry at me sometimes,” Akechi interrupted. “Just as I’m angry at you sometimes. Fair’s fair—besides, I’d rather you be angry than resentful.”

Akira sighed. “I don’t resent you.”

“Not right _now._ ”

“Yeah,” Akira said, subsiding. Akechi waited her out. “Do you want to stop having—want me to stop trying to make you come, or stop having sex entirely, or—”

“Do _you_?” Akechi asked, to avoid answering the question herself.

Akira laughed nervously. “No! It’s, it’s frustrating but it’s fun. Figuring out what winds you up and making you come apart for me. _I_ don’t want to stop, but if _you_ do—”

“No,” Akechi cut in, stomach in knots. “I don’t want to stop.”

“Okay,” Akira said. “Okay, alright. Glad we got that sorted out.”

Akechi felt herself relax a little, slumping back into the couch. “Come over,” she said impulsively. “Since you’re not going to work—”

“Yes, princess.” Akira’s eye roll was audible. “Coming.”

Akechi wandered around listlessly for a few minutes after the call ended, tidying up in a way that was more shifting clutter from one surface onto another. She couldn’t be bothered, though, so in the end she grabbed a beer from the fridge and curled up with her phone to kill time.

And fell asleep.

It made sense—she hadn’t slept well since Akira left. She woke up in what felt like no time at all and discovered that the beer can have been pried from her hand and left on the coffee table, and that she was lying under a hoodie that had cat fur on it. Akira was here, then.

She stumbled to her feet and went to find Akira, starting in her bedroom and ending in the kitchen. Akira was standing in front of the fridge with a glazed expression. Akechi gently tugged her away and reoriented her. “What did you want?”

“Milk,” Akira said blankly.

“I don’t have any,” Akechi replied, draping Akira’s hoodie back over her shoulders. “I’m going to get some now. Care to join me?”

Akira came with, still slightly zoned out. Akechi dumped things into the cart and let Akira drift between the soup aisles for a few minutes, looping back after checking out to pick her up. “What’s in your head?” she asked as they walked back to Akechi’s apartment.

“Tired,” Akira responded. “Missed you.”

She draped herself over Akechi’s shoulder in the elevator, becoming more of a koala as the ascended to the tenth floor. Akechi tried to shove her off and then suffered it, secretly rather pleased by how much Akira _liked_ touching her. She wanted more, a forever and a half of this and this alone.

Akechi put the groceries away (she did this by putting everything somewhere she couldn’t see it, and it had worked so far) while Akira played some shitty gacha game on the couch (she only played them when Akechi wasn’t in the room, because Akechi reamed her out if she was there). 

She switched on again a few hours later halfway through a true crime documentary. Akechi’s attention was wandering; true crime was Akira’s passion, not hers, and it was all she could do to keep her nitpicks to herself as Akira watched. Instead she watched Akira herself, and so noticed the second Akira blinked and shook her head slightly, sitting up to dig into the pocket of her jeans. Akechi got up and returned a minute later. “You’re looking for these, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Akira said, gratefully accepting her glasses. “How did you—”

“I know where you put things,” Akechi shrugged, sitting back down. Akira swept her hair back, put her glasses on, and unpaused the documentary. Akechi sighed and leaned into Akira’s side, reaching for her free hand.

Akira’s hands were…well. Akechi knew she herself had nice hands—strong, not prone to shaking, with manicured nails and long fingers. Akira’s hands were the opposite in every way: she bit her nails (admittedly so had Akechi, but she’d broken herself of the habit five years ago), she had a dogged mistrust of manicures and an inability to keep hands still that long, and her fingers shook all the time except when she was holding a knife, a gun, or a coffee pot. Actually Akechi was fairly sure the shaking was more a symptom of the deep anger Akira hoped would go away if she pretended it didn’t exist—she wasn’t going to say that, though. Not right _now._ She could be a little tactful.

Today Akira’s knuckles were bruised. Akechi ran her thumb over the scraped-tender skin and watched Akira bite her lip and tense, fingers twitching in Akechi’s grip. Akechi didn’t look away from Akira’s face as she lifted her hand to her lips, kissing carefully.

Akira’s eyes flashed with heat. “Goro,” she said sharply. “If you want something—”

“No,” Akechi said sweetly. “Nothing.” It was a lie. She wanted Akira to chase it down and pin her. She bent her head and licked Akira’s knuckles. Tasted copper and skin-salt, notes of coffee and sugar slightly burnt.

“I don’t think so,” Akira said. She flipped her hand and curled it around Akechi’s wrist, her grip unhesitating and firm. “I think you want _something._ Tell me what it is.”

Akechi glanced away, calculating, then darted her eyes sidelong at Akira. “And if I do tell you?” 

“I might give it to you.” Akira’s eyes held hers, grey and impenetrable. 

“I want your fingers,” Akechi breathed. “Inside me.” 

Akira tilted her head, considering Akechi for a long moment. “Go wait in the bedroom for me,” she ordered finally, sealing the words by leaning forward to kiss the inside of Akechi’s hand. 

Akechi felt strangely confident as she walked to the bedroom. She had no reason to expect this to work, but she had a good feeling about it. Good enough to last while she took her clothes off and lay down on the bed, automatically moving to draw the sheets over herself before leaving it be. She traced a starburst scar on her thigh instead, caught by the memory of how she’d gotten it and how she’d lied to everyone about the way she was favoring her other leg. Had the lies worked? Pain made it hard to remember.

When Akira walked back in, she wasn’t wearing her hoodie or shirt. Akechi’s mouth went dry at the sight of her, black bra cupping her pale breasts and jeans riding low on her hips. There was a bottle of water in one of her hands and a plate of sliced apples in her other.

“I’m not hungry,” Akechi pouted. “And you promised—” Akira hadn’t.

“I didn’t,” Akira said. “I said I _might_ give you what you want.”

“What did you do to your hand, punch a wall?”

The brief guilt that flashed over Akira’s face confirmed that hypothesis. Akechi made a show of rolling her eyes, like she didn’t intimately understand the urge. They were built out of the same cloth, after all. “Regardless,” Akira said stubbornly. “It’s not for you right _now._ ” She put the things she was holding on the bedside table and shook her hand out, flexing her fingers. “This is, though.”

“Changed your mind so fast?”

“And I will again if you don’t keep _quiet._ ”

Akechi snapped her mouth shut, then opened it immediately. “You could gag me.”

“You would not like that at all,” Akira snorted.

Akechi shrugged. She liked when Akira did things to her that she didn’t like. Her sexuality had never worked before, so she couldn’t accuse Akira of breaking it, but if pressed she’d admit there was something off about that aspect of it—not that it mattered, really, except that Akechi had once had a nightmare about Akira forcing her and woken up unbearably wet and desperate.

It had gone nowhere, of course, and not for lack of trying.

“Alright,” Akira said. There was a Joker-like gleam in her eyes. “Where’s the lube?”

The lube was in the bathroom cupboard. Akira laughed at her for keeping it there and Akechi threatened to leave before Akira kissed the back of her hand in apology. Then she let go, frowning down at Akechi like she couldn’t decide how she wanted to do this.

Akechi made the decision for her, lying down on the bed and spreading her legs. Akira positioned herself between them, slicking up her fingers. 

“You like being fucked, don’t you?” Akira asked casually, then went on before Akechi could respond derisively. “I can tell. You’re so eager for something to fill you up—pretended you were above that dildo, but you were _thinking_ about it, weren’t you?”

Where the fuck did Akira keep all that filthy talk locked down? Akechi made a sound instead of replying and tentatively placed a hand on her stomach rising and falling in time with her breaths.

“How eager, though?” Akira mused. “You like my fingers, but you could probably take more than that. I wonder if you could take, hmm, my fist.”

Akechi jerked. “Your _fist?_ ”

“Didn’t I tell you to be quiet,” Akira clucked. “And yeah. Do you have a problem with the idea?”

Quite the _opposite_ , as Akira damn well knew. It was awfully alluring—Akira’s fingers inside her, Akira’s entire _hand_ inside her. Akechi nodded, bit her lip, and wondered why she couldn’t seem to find a word right now.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” Akira said, pouring more lube into her hand. Her fingers were cool when she stroked Akechi’s folds. Akechi closed her eyes. She couldn’t see this. Akira pressed deeper slowly, two fingers to start with an an easier slide than it should have been. Maybe Akechi was finally getting good at this. She focused on breathing and relaxing her muscles as much as possible, letting Akira in.

She tensed up again when Akira added another finger, but she didn’t feel _bad._ There was excitement flushing through her with the arousal. She _wanted_ to come, wanted Akira to succeed. Wanted _this,_ of all things, to work.

The anticipation outpaced the arousal as Akira added a fourth finger, a stretch that ached just shy of too much. Akechi squeezed around the intrusion and Akira rewarded her with a swift smile, immediately replaced by focused, _hungry_ expression as she watched her fingers delve into Akechi’s core, strong and searching.

Akechi whimpered when Akira brushed a nerve deep inside her, pleasure lighting up her body. Her mind exulted for a moment, so sure that this was _it,_ but the intensity was unabated in its wake. Akira touched her there again, and again it felt good, but not good _enough._

Still she teetered at the edge of a cliff, forever stuck on the wrong side of the fall. She closed her eyes and _concentrated_ on tipping herself over. 

Pain lanced through her like her body had been split in half. She tried to sit up and nearly _screamed,_ the pain only cutting at a different angle every time she shifted. She ended up lying on her side and gasping like a dying fish.

Akira hovered above her, close but not touching. “Goro?” she asked. “What happened?”

“Hurts,” Akechi said through gritted teeth.

“Uh.” Akira was floundering. “Water?”

“Sure,” Akechi muttered. “Why not.”

She lay there for a while longer, though, waiting for the pain to subside. It wasn’t, she thought clinically, the kind of pain that came with an injury. This felt like muscle pain, like she’d strained something inside herself by pushing too hard.

Typical. She sat up, ignored the last little pulse of pain, and drank the water Akira handed her. Then she swung off the bed, patting Akira’s shoulder as she dragged herself to the bathroom.

She peed and washed her face and found soft, worn clothes to slip into. Her hands shook as she dressed herself. It felt like something had snapped inside her a few moments ago, and she felt curiously off-kilter.

Akira looked miserable when she returned. Akechi sighed and sat down next to her, leaning in with her entire body. “I can hear your self-loathing,” she said. “Cut it out.”

“But, you know.” Akira didn’t elaborate on what Akechi knew. “And it _actually_ hurt you—”

“Oh, please,” Akechi said coolly. “I’ve been through far worse.” She grabbed Akira’s hands. “You did what I asked you to, and it went wrong because things always go wrong with me.” It was true, it was _true_ and Akechi didn’t even have the strength to be angry at herself about it anymore. She rarely gave up but she’d given up now, tired of trying to fix something clearly irreparable. “I lived. You’re still here. Can we sleep?”

Akira was looking at her hands in Akechi’s, looking painfully guilty still. “Are you mad at yourself?”

Now _that_ hurt worse than whatever had just happened. Of course Akira cared about Akechi first, _every time._ Akechi wanted to drag them both off a cliff to see if Akira would manage to sprout wings in midair just to save Akechi from the fall. She would never once earn it, but damn if it didn’t make her feel a little better right now. Even if it hurt.

“Not really,” Akechi said, trying to be honest. “I like that you try.” She stroked the backs of Akira’s hands. “I don’t care if you succeed. I think I lost before I had a chance. There’s no point being angry about this, when I could be angry about other things.”

Akira’s relief was clear and immeasurable. “You’re,” she started, then interrupted herself by kissing Akechi. Seeking reassurance Akechi was only too happy to provide.

They parted a long moment later. Akira sighed and relaxed against Akechi, who finally reminded herself to release Akira’s hands and wrapped her own arms around Akira instead. She’d learnt this from Akira herself, but Akira didn’t mind when Akechi used her tricks.

“Go get changed,” Akechi said at last. “You’re not sleeping alone tonight.”

Akira nuzzled her neck for a moment longer, until Akechi shoved at her, when she pulled reluctantly away and left to change. Akechi sidled to the bedside table and put a slice of apple in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

It had been nice to have Akira’s attention on her—to feel like an instrument Akira was learning how to play, to think of her body as a thing that would work if they just learnt how. It had been nice, but it hadn’t _worked._ Akechi was so used to thinking of herself as an object that her mind quailed from the idea that she _wasn’t—_ look where it had gotten her. She thought it’d work because she always managed to make herself do whatever she’d set her mind to sooner or later. Pain was a small price to pay. 

Now it wasn’t, and Akechi wanted to give up. Wanted, for once, to not make herself suffer for the sake of a goal that she’d clearly never been meant to reach. It was almost a relief to be broken from the start; if she’d been set up for failure, surely that meant it was _okay_ to fail.

She ate another slice of apple. They were sweet, and she was hungry.

Akira flopped face-first into the bed, then inched slowly towards the head. Akechi prodded her shoulder until she turned her head, then held a piece of apple to her mouth. “‘Fanks,” Akira mumbled. “Blankie.”

“You’re not a baby,” Akechi admonished, charmed against her will as she ate the last slice and then reached for the duvets to cover both of them. She curled up next to Akira under them, then cursed and got up to switch off the lights.

Her heart was still racing when she got back inside. For a moment she felt terribly aware of the beat, and of Akira next to her, and the myriad failures of her body. She couldn’t compartmentalize as well as she’d once been able to—her attempts to push the thoughts away failed. Finally she turned and threw an arm over Akira’s stomach, pressing her face against Akira’s shoulder like that would hide her from her own mind.

Her arrangement shifted as Akira turned. “Sorry,” she whispered.

“No,” Akechi said grumpily. “I don’t want you to be sorry.”

“But I am,” Akira replied, like she was trying to win something here. There was nothing to win. They’d proven that thoroughly.

Akechi kneed Akira’s thigh. “I forgive you,” she said scathingly. “There, is that better?”

“A little,” Akira admitted. Then, nonsensically, “Your hair smells nice.”

“I know. Please go to sleep.”

Akira hummed. “Night, Goro.”

Akechi didn’t reply, but she stroked Akira’s stomach with the backs of her fingers until she felt Akira sigh and unwind, tension leaching out of her body in increments. What would it be like to have that? To not feel like her body was a crime she could not stop committing, some prison she couldn’t break out of no matter how she tried?

The self-pity burnt like acid. She tried to stop thinking about it, failed, then drifted off anyway.

She dreamt she was climbing an endless staircase that got narrower and narrower with each flight. There were no railings—her fingers slid into air every time she reached for them in the dark, until she overbalanced and fell so quickly she didn’t even have time to scream. The dream faded, leaving her in the warm darkness. Akira’s breaths were steady and slow. She held onto that for a long time.

Usually Akira woke up before her, but she was still asleep when Akechi opened her eyes to daylight streaming in through the window. For a moment Akechi scowled at it and tried to employ telekinesis to drawing the curtains, then gave it up as futile and tucked her face into the curve of Akira’s neck.

Akira smelled like Akira. Akechi sighed and tried to get closer to Akira, even though she was already wrapped around her as much as two nominally separate people could be. It wasn’t _enough,_ she wanted to be touching Akira everywhere.

Besides, Akira slept like the dead. She wouldn’t notice if Akechi threw her legs over Akira’s so they were pressed together from hip to ankle—and— _ah._

There. Perfect. 

She wiggled closer, always greedy for more. “‘Kechi?” Akira murmured. “Wha’s up?”

“Nothing,” Akechi whispered. “Go to sleep.”

Akira made an affirmative sound, turning in place to wrap her arm around Akechi. Warmth thrummed through Akechi’s body as Akira rubbed her back slowly. She’d always liked being touched best, starved of it for so long that she treasured it fiercely when she had it.

She had it now in plenty. Akira’s body was firm and unmoving, a steady source of heat and care. Akechi felt caged in a bubble of soft-edged pleasure, floating higher and higher.

“Pushy,” Akira said, affection blooming in her voice. “It’s alright, Goro. You’re alright.”

It _was_ alright, Akechi realized, heart seared to aching by Akira’s brutal devotion. “Yeah,” she said mindlessly. “Yeah, _Akira—_ ”

The bubble popped. 

“Akechi,” Akira started. “Did you just—”

“Oh,” Akechi said, dazed. “I think so, yes.”

Akira laughed, incredulous and delighted. The heat inside Akechi had subsided to a quiet simmer, hardly a priority. Her body was ringing with the aftershock, clear and sweet like the peals of a bell. The comedown might have been more sudden if it weren’t for Akira’s body still pressed against her, anchoring her to this newfound state of grace.

She felt unwound, any urge to pull herself back together and fence the edges curiously missing. 

It was nice to be alright, even though she knew it was a temporary thing. Some part of her was astonished that she _could_ feel this way. She’d never suspected the existence of this capacity in her.

“You’re so good,” Akira said warmly. “Oh, Akechi.”

“Shut up,” Akechi mumbled, vaguely embarrassed. “I didn’t even do anything.”

“That’s probably why,” Akira pointed out.

Akechi closed her eyes and hid her face again. Akira let her, slipping a hand under her shirt to stroke her sides. Akechi shivered at the sensation. It felt good. Akira always made her feel good.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://ciaran.tumblr.com), [twitter](https://twitter.com/swornrival), & [18+ twitter](https://twitter.com/misgcnder).


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